When I lived in Shitport, Louisiana, I torturously sweated and toiled in a vending warehouse where the hours were long and the labor grueling. The easy-going custodian who half-heartedly cleaned and maintained the premises was a black woman named Alta May (not a very common name at all, I might add). And this was during the early to mid-‘90s when grunge loudly reared its monstrously huge head and reigned supreme in the carcass-strewn dinosaur-rock kingdom of FM-radio stagnancy. Now here’s where the irony of the situation kicks in, folks: this gruff’n’gritty trio of tune-blasters, who are aptly named Alta May, feverishly flail through a grungey maelstrom of sonic skull-crushers that brings to mind the flannel-enshrouded era of Seattle’s sullen sounds which were buried deep in richly textured strains of heroin, decadence, darkness, and death. I assuredly do not intend that to be construed as a negatively toned statement, ‘cause Alta May grandly radiate a mesmerizing glimmer of audial energy that equals, and sometimes surpasses, the best of what Nirvana, Mudhoney, Alice In Chains, Green River, Tad, Love Battery, and countless others had to offer back when grunge was king and the predictable rapmetal moronity of today was nothin’ more than a speck of laundry lint in some major-label rep’s coin pocket. Ah, yes indeed, those were the days... or were they really?!? -Roger Moser, Jr.